Soliloquy
by petro13
Summary: You remember the way she trembled under your touch. The pattern her goosebumps made. The number of times you made her laugh unguardedly." A series of unrelated House and Cameron one-shots.
1. Blues

Series of unrelated House and Cameron one-shots.

Blues

Oh no, not this again.

You are such a masochist.

You know this will only cause a flood of unwelcome but equally as fond memories to infiltrate your mind, body, and living room.

Still you put the needle on the vinyl.

It's nearly instant.

The melancholy melody stays suspended in mid air. It reminds you of the way when she was with you, her smile never could quite reach her eyes.

You remember when she was at your place one night.

You remember her closing her eyes and swaying with the beat of the LP.

You wouldn't take her for a blues fan, but she just added another notch on your belt of Cameron surprises.

It's fitting you think.

The songs of the blues tell stories of wounds never healed, loves lost and never found, and lonely nights with only a piano and a bottle for company.

It's disgusting how cliche you are; sitting here alone in the dark, half drunk and half high, listening to a song that reminds you of the one girl you never could quite figure out.

The static on the record just reminds you how old it is, how old you are, and how youthful and refreshing she was before you got a hold of her.

Your depression seeped out of you and spread with sickening speed.

_It's better this way,_ you think, that she got out before you could swallow her light completely.

Still, you think, just one more taste wouldn't hurt.

You swirl some bourbon around the bottom of a glass.

If you just had one more memory to hold on to.

You remember the way she trembled under your touch.

The patterns her goosebumps made.

You remember the number of times you made her laugh unguardedly, seventeen.

You hear the harmonica solo, the world's most morose instrument, and you think this music really isn't helping.

When she first asked you to play her some blues, you thought you would start her off with some newer, lighter, stuff. But as soon as you pushed play she told you it was all wrong.

She wanted the heavy stuff, deep south, delta blues.

You acquiesced and the result was an unlikely combination that was oddly suited.

You were sad, you made her sad, and the blues were sad.

With a loud fuzzy sound the needle rises, the record ends, but the memories stay.

They never really dissipate, you think.

You simply sit, silently hoping the record player will read your mind, and some unknown force will reset the needle and resume the playing. You just want to remember a little longer you tell yourself.


	2. Knowledge

Chapter 2

Knowledge

You know her objective is to make you jealous.

You wonder if she knows that it's working.

You really do hate Chase.

After all, you fired him didn't you?

The basic male in you wants to kill him and take her, but you know a thing or two about sex, lies, and manipulation.

So far, she is playing a pretty simple hand; look hot, fuck someone you hate, and make sure you know about it.

You know Chase.

-Daddy issues

-Genuine heart; fake smile

-Oblivious to her games, for now

You know Foreman

-bad rep

-cocky attitude

-still searching for the missing key to his humility

You know her, or at least you think you do.

-outrageous moral compass

-dead husband

-pretty face

Wait a minute, your mind is processing.

With the boys, you know both the cause and effect of their flaws.

Chase is a kiss ass because his father abandoned him.

Foreman is cocky because he rose above a life in the ghetto and a brother in the big house.

But her, you have no diagnosis; only symptoms.

You know not the root of her inability to objectively care.

You try to devise a plan where you could gather such intimate knowledge.

It would be easy enough, you think.

Corner her when she's alone, invade her space, fill her pretty little head with your scent, stare down at her, touch her skin.

She would be putty in your hands, you think.

No, you reconsider.

That would be showing her your hand, and you can't let her have all the cards.

You can't let her beat you at her own game.

You must wait.

You see him wait for her outside your office.

She changed; black dress, more skin, hair down and tumbling over her shoulders, she trails a hand down his arm.

She's wearing a smoldering look that says, _'it could be you,' _and you have to admit she's good.

It was a well-orchestrated encounter.

You see her in a sex outfit, you see her initiate contact with him, and you see them together, involuntarily making your mind create grotesque suppositions about where they will go and what they will do.

'Well played,' you think to yourself.

You will wait.

You will watch.

You will win.

Because as much as she thinks she knows about sex, lies, and manipulation, you are the master.


	3. Challenge

chapter 3- Cameron's POV

Challenge

You always had liked a challenge.

You pushed yourself through medical school, you stayed by your dying husband, you fought to be the best of the interns during your residency, but this, this is testing your

resolve.

You thought he would have given in by now.

But nothing.

No extra contact.

No jealous looks.

No retaliation.

You are really getting tired of Chase.

Despite your appearance and reputation, you aren't the goody two shoes everyone believes you are.

You don't deserve Chase's unwavering devotion.

You never even gave him a reason to love you.

He's just such a good guy.

And that's the problem.

You've tried all your tricks to get House to notice you.

-You tried bribing him

-Ignoring him

-Making him jealous

-Threatening to leave

Sure, you had some minor victories, but not to the scale you desire.

You needed a new tactic, so when Cuddy offered you her job for a test run, you thought it might be enough to break him.

You in control is definitely a change in dynamic.

You show up on Monday in a power suit with renewed will.

Cuddy shows you various filing cabinets, passwords, and phone numbers.

You are anxiously awaiting the first encounter with him.

Wish granted.

He comes busting through the double doors of Cuddy's office.

Cuddy plays the role of seasoned professional with practiced ease, unfazed by his antics.

You try to appear unaffected in the corner of the room.

"I need a liver." He proclaims.

"What?" Cuddy offers, "you want mine?"

He knows the protocol, put the patient on the waiting list.

"Nah, there are other parts of you I'd like to get my hands on."

Then he notices you.

Consider his curiosity sparked.

"I swear I've had this dream before." He says pointing back and forth between you and Cuddy.

Two sets of eyes immediately roll.

"Dr. Cameron will be covering for me while I spend some time with Rachel."

She grabs her coat off the stand and turns to leave,

"behave." She points at House.

The door shuts.

He levels his gaze at you.

"I never do."

He smirks,

"This is going to be fun."

You swallow.

You always had liked a challenge.

But maybe, you think, _just _maybe, this time you're in over your head.


	4. Why

Chapter 4-circa big baby

Why

"I'm not gonna lie, you being my superior was kinda hot."

She tosses him a disapproving glance,

"Yeah well, it didn't last very long did it?"

He shrugs,

"From what I hear, you took yourself out of the job."

No matter how many floors you put between them, they always manage to fall right back.

She sits across from him in his office.

It is late.

The janitorial staff is already buffing floors and emptying trash cans.

"Maybe you heard wrong."

He didn't hear wrong, but she doesn't want him to start prying.

He shakes his head and smirks at her,

"I don't think so, my source is pretty reliable."

Thoughts of him and Cuddy cause a bad taste to form in her mouth.

"What I don't know," he looks at her, "is why."

Ah, the seemingly constant question floating between them.

The context of the question changes, but the question itself never does.

_Why do you like me?_

_Why are you so miserable?_

_Why do you care?_

_Why do I love you?_

"What was it?" He questions her.

"Too much paperwork, not enough patients?"

She drops a telling look on the floor.

Following her gaze he reconsiders,

"No, that's not it."

She wonders what the nurses, administrators, and janitors, think of them.

She has been out from under his employ for some time, she has a handsome boyfriend trying to give her the world, and yet she is still sitting in his office late at night wearing a

shameful expression.

"It's about me isn't it?"

She can't help it.

She looks away defeated.

Her passive mannerism solidifying his accusation.

He leans back in his chair.

She's expecting him to be smug, to throw her own weakness in her face, but she is surprised to find him quiet, staring at an imaginary object over her shoulder.

He is surprised; not that it had something to do with him, but _why_ it had something to do with him.

He knows it wasn't the buttons he pushed.

He had his thumb constantly pressing down her buttons for three years.

She can handle it.

He knows it's not because she's trying to appease Chase.

She still comes to him when Chase is in surgery or waiting for her at home.

A wave of realization is washing over him.

She quit because she knows it will lead somewhere.

She trusts him too implicitly.

This week she discovered that even though she has no reason to trust him medically, three years as his subordinate watching him cure hundreds of patients on what seem at the

time like wild diagnosis pulled from thin air, has convinced her that he is worth the risk.

In his mind, this steadfast faith in his abilities can only mean one thing.

"You still love me."

Her eyes are wide, she says nothing.

When she came to his office tonight, she was not expecting this line of conversation.

Her surprise plays to his advantage.

He thinks best on his feet, and he knows her emotions will always betray the front she's trying to put up.

She is playing right into his hand.

"I..." she draws out, "don't know."

Oddly, a somewhat comfortable silence follows.

They both realize the games each has been playing on the other.

The passed week has been trying on her, and the passed 4 years have worn down his ability to refuse her.

"Come to my place."

She thinks for a moment, "why not?"


	5. Memory

Inspired by Elliott Smith.

A little more abstract than normal...

Cameron's POV

Memory

It's funny what the mind chooses to remember.

Of all the hours in all the days spent wasting time, only a small portion of odds and ends are retained in your mind.

For you they are just snippets; fleeting moments of a tragic young life.

The earliest memory you have is of a black horse.

You assume it's your first pony ride.

You remember the way that the sun reflected off the bridle, and how it hurt your eyes.

You realized even at the age of four some things just weren't meant to be tamed.

You remember the feeling of lying in tall summer grasses; the wind creating tributaries and pathways through its pale mass.

You remember your husband looking up disdainfully at the stairs in your first house, too weak to climb.

You remember the relieved exhale emitted from Ezra Powell when you committed your mercy murder.

You remember the first time you mistook his rejection for repressed affection.

There are some things you can never forget.

The monumental moments in your life seem to be encased in an intellectual haze; shrouded in false fondness, disguising an underlying theme of disappointment.

Graduation left you with a feeling of utter underwhelming.

Your wedding day vows were a cruel reminder of your ticking clock, _'till death do us part.'_

His funeral; a sunny day when it really should have rained.

These recollections, when strung together and set into motion, are acts akin to speed reading; not knowing exactly what is happening, but understanding the overriding tone.

He seems to be able to construe the entire work, even if you only give him pieces.

He's breaking down your life, taking it apart flaw by flaw.

A more abstract mind could call your failures art.

After all, you have all the fundamental elements for an anguish filled literary masterpiece.

Yes, there are some things you will never forget.

You have a feeling tonight is going to be one of them.

You came to his home with no expectations.

You didn't know if you would sleep together.

That hasn't happened yet.

So far it has been a stalemate.

You observe his belongings up close, he balances a glass on the arm of his sofa.

He has many things, objects and knickknacks, that upon first glance seem unimportant and inconsequential, but you know he wouldn't keep them if they didn't mean something.

A broken compass, an old film canister, and an unmarked baseball are littered over his bookshelves, pulling the question from her,

"Why do keep all this stuff?"

She wants to know what is important to him.

He stands from his place on the sofa,

"The world is nothing more than all the little things you've left behind."

Little things.

Memories play at the forefront of your mind.

Feeling smooth beach glass, tearing open an envelope, tasting honey on your tongue.

He looks as though he can see them too, as if your entire life were subject to his scrutiny.

"Why am I here?" you ask.

"You love me remember?" he says, plain as day.

Did you have a drink?

Your mind is clouded.

"I tried not to," you knew it would hurt to care for him.

You still don't want to love this man, "I'll try not to."

He knows that is one vow you won't keep.

"That's a promise you'll only make."

You walk to his bedroom doorway and wait for him.

He doesn't move.

There is a hall between you now.

You want to sleep with him, you want him to drive the images out of your head.

Wind through your fingers, the sharp pull of sutures, blood dripping from your lip.

Every little thing your mind deemed necessary to remember is coming back, unfurling over one another, coalescing into a cacophony of dissonance.

He drifts towards you.

You are faintly aware that he is leaning towards your mouth.

The instant he kisses you is when clarity begins.

Anything before this moment means nothing.

The dissonance falls and fades into melody.

All your memories have dissolved.

You only hope you don't forget this.


	6. Fraud

Sorry for the long wait. This one has been done before, but I hope it's interesting none the less.

Fraud

You are such a fraud.

Your lies are so convincing even you start to believe them.

"_I just need some time on my own."_

Bull shit.

"_This has nothing to do with you."_

You don't love him.

"_I have to know that I'm making the best decision. I'm not saying no forever, just no for right now."_

You know it won't last.

Poor Chase, presenting you with a rather large engagement ring.

You hate how black and white Chase is.

He wants marriage or he wants to break up.

Can't he just be content that you are giving him as much as you are capable of?

You hate the way his face falls.

No matter how misguided and premature his proposal is, it's still hard to turn down a fantasy, a fairy tale.

But the truth is, for you the fairy tale died a long time ago.

You are allowed to say no to Chase's proposition, but you wouldn't feel quite so guilty if you weren't standing outside _his_ door.

You feel unprepared and insignificant.

You came here to tell him that you left Chase; you don't love him, you never did, and that you would be willing to give _him_ everything.

When he opens his door you lose all confidence.

You feel like a cloud of smoke trying to occupy the space of his entryway.

"May I come in?" you ask meekly.

His face says, _"I'd rather you didn't,"_ but he lets you in anyway.

You love his home.

You love his furniture.

You love his mess.

You love the way he retreats to it.

You love him.

You've been here before.

Many months ago he'd questioned you.

"_Why are you with Chase?"_

You'd answered with a shrug.

"_He's simple and thoughtful, loyal to a fault." _

You continued on an exhale,

"_He's uncomplicated and that's something I need right now."_

He didn't believe you then.

He won't believe you now.

"I broke things off with Chase."

You say out of the blue while fingering a black key of his piano.

He wears a look that says, _"Right."_

Sure enough, "Yeah," he motions to the door with a wave of his hand, "you'd better go, Carmen Electra and Babe Ruth are coming over for poker night."

You manage a hidden smile.

"What was the straw the finally broke the camel's back?"

You love that he can't help his curiosity.

You press down on a single key,

"He proposed."

Your words hang heavy in the air; invisible strings attached to the ends, simultaneously holding them up and dragging them down.

Your words cling to the folds of your conversation like condensation on an ever warming can of soda.

The note you played suspends itself like moisture on a muggy summer afternoon.

"And what?" He looks at you oddly. "You can't agree on a matrimonial theme?"

"China patterns." You reply.

He nods, satisfied with your joke.

"And you're here now because?..."

You plop down beside him on his sofa.

"Because..." you drag out, "this is what we do."

You turn to him, god is he beautiful.

"I come to you with my problems, you mock their pettiness, you mock me, but somewhere in your ranting are nuggets of truth."

"Nuggets of truth," he repeats. "So you coming here tonight has nothing to do with the fact that you and I have an intense sexual history?"

You try to strike a pose of over-exaggerated innocence.

"And that you are no longer capable of an extended committed relationship or accepting what's right for you and denying what will certainly be your demise."

You smile unaffectedly.

"That sounds about right."

He gets up and walks to his bedroom. He throws a glance over his shoulder as he begins to undo the buttons of his shirt.

"Nuggets of truth huh?"

You nod.

Your demise has never looked so good.


	7. Symmetry

I wonder if abstractness has entered my water source somewhere.

Symmetry

Opposites attract.

Or so you thought.

You've been told by a thousand different love stories the same tired theme.

Boy meets girl, boy and girl fall in love, boy and girl realize they don't belong, boy and girl put aside their conflicts so they can be together.

What a load of crap.

You have feelings for her.

There's no use denying it.

Even you couldn't get away with lying to yourself about it.

At first you thought the feelings you were having when she first started working for you were just symptoms of a classic ailment.

She is everything you're not, and naturally you are attracted to the thought of consuming her and making yourself whole.

Your mind creates images of two halves melding, two circles meeting, two birds perched on the same damn branch, and a hundred other equally as stupid illustrations of your infatuation

with her morality.

She is your opposite.

And that was your entire rationale on why you loved her, or why you wanted her.

But, you now realize, that isn't the case at all.

It's an unequivocal fact that humans seek out likeness, symmetry.

She is symmetry.

She is beautiful.

If you were to draw a dotted line down her profile, dividing her face in two, you would be hard-pressed to find a minutiae of difference from one side to the other.

She is naturally, classically, undeniably, beautiful.

As a red-blooded male you can't help your attraction; but you know that it's more than that.

It goes beyond the physical.

She isn't your opposite, she is you.

Its almost as if god, or whatever force you believe in, set her before you, to expose you to yourself.

She is this seemingly perfect little being with so much baggage submerged beneath her beauty.

You and her are like ducks on a pond.

Above water you seem to be moving around with relative ease, but if one were to look beneath the surface they would see your little feet churning a mile a minute, just to stay above the

water line.

The similarities are obvious to you now.

Sadness overwhelms both of you, acts like an undertow trying to drag you under, fills you up to your pores.

The evidence of unfortunate circumstances and missed opportunities marks both your bodies.

Intense moral action consumes both of your minds.

Granted, her issues of virtue are more apparent and far more annoying than yours, but the degree to which the issues are expressed is inconsequential.

You both have a questionable track record of previous relationships.

One failed marriage and one relationship based on who she should be for her.

One long term love ending in betrayal and one string of one night stands for you.

You've been thinking a lot about symmetry lately.

Correction, you've been thinking a lot about her lately.

And just like that, some cosmic force has heard your internal musings.

You hear your front door open and close.

You are lying in bed, fully clothed, letting your over active mind do its thing.

No words are spoken, she lays down next to you.

After a minute or two of thinking, your over active mind hands over the reins to your mouth; sans filter.

"Symmetry." You say as you continue to look up at the ceiling.

Out of the corner of your eye you see her head turn towards you.

You can tell she is wondering where this is going.

"Similarity or exact correspondence between two different things?"

You nod.

No matter how much your relationship has changed over the years, the student-teacher dynamic will always remain.

"You and I," you roll over onto your stomach, "are symmetrical."

She scoffs and turns towards you, "How do you figure that?"

How to explain?

With a finger you draw an imaginary diagram on your pillow.

Boxes inside boxes, the smallest box is in the center, the picture looking like a stairwell from above.

"People form relationships based on similarities."

You point to your drawing.

"Acquaintances and second cousins are in the outermost box. Friends and co-workers are a box or two closer to the middle. The more intimate you are with a person the closer to the

center they get."

"And what's in the center?" She asks.

You point to her heart.

She understands, "People search for others who have their same beliefs, goals, tastes in music."

"Right," you look at her, "humans like to think that opposites attract, that incompatible people can be meant for each other, but the truth is,"

You start to run your finger from the middle of her forehead down her nose, "Without symmetry," your finger travels across her lips and rests on her chin,

"the center box is unattainable."

Her breath is low, "And you think we are symmetrical?"

You want to kiss her so you do.

When you pull away she questions you.

"Are you trying to tell me that you love me?"

Are you?

No, that can't be.

"I'm just trying to tell you that you're in one of my boxes."


	8. Three

Sorry its been so long...

Three

Of all the places you thought you'd end up, back in Chicago was at the bottom of your list.

You didn't know where else to go.

Leaving your husband, your job, and your home all at once may have been a little too much.

Leaving him wasn't exactly a cake walk either.

Still, there is some comfort in knowing that you have a fresh start; a new apartment, a new job, a new life.

It's been three months since you've left Princeton, and you are returning to as close to normal as you will ever get again.

But the guilt is ravaging your body.

You knew it wasn't going to work out with Chase because you didn't want it to work out.

Chase's moral crisis gave you the avenue to escape.

The fact that you are relieved, alleviated of all marital responsibility, cuts you to your core.

You are not who you should be.

* * *

You've decided that working is good for you.

Looking at cells, slides, and centrifuges is a welcome distraction.

Your new job at Chicago General is in the lab, running tests, doing research, for the most part away from people and patients.

That doesn't mean that the men have left you alone.

You've had many offers for many lovely sounding dates, and you've turned them all down.

Just. keep. working.

Thinking empirically, ignoring everything that exists outside the realm of the microscope is simply easier.

Feelings and emotions are too messy to be dealt with.

Sounds an awful lot like someone you know.

Used to know.

It's odd to think of him that way, distantly, like you'll never see him again.

It's for the best--you tell yourself.

Now you just need to start believing it.

* * *

When you come home from the hospital you mostly work on your new apartment.

Cleaning, hanging pictures, and placing furniture, it's starting to feel like a home.

For the most part, you are doing quite well.

You've stopped crying.

You've started to see the pros to being alone again.

You can eat when you want, sleep when you want, look like hell when you want.

You are holding it all together, holding it all together with a silk thread.

One slip, one reminder of three months ago, and the thread will snap and you will be sent plummeting.

As you're putting away tonight's dinner, you hear a knock on your door.

The landlord has made himself a regular figure, wanting to see how you're settling in, and you suspect, wanting to get in your pants.

You open the door expecting another subtly innuendoes conversation, but suddenly,

_Snap_

Seeing his face, his eyes, you could be anywhere; tumbling through the past.

House.

He looks up at you and smirks.

"Don't act surprised, we always do this."

He brushes passed you into the entryway.

It is true, you always leave, he always comes to find you.

You barely find your voice,

"What are you doing here?"

He's already snooping around your place,

"Visiting."

You haven't moved from the doorway, shock has frozen you in place.

"By the way," he says plopping down on your couch, "saw your landlord on the way up...super creep."

You close the door.

"So," he asks, "what's for dinner?"

* * *

You pace around your kitchen.

You are reheating left-overs.

For him.

You have recovered from your shock, and intense curiosity has taken its place.

Why is he here?

You thought you had said your piece, and made it adamantly clear that you were done with him and Princeton forever.

You bring the plate of food out to him in the living room,

"What hotel are you staying at?"

Without missing a beat,

"Chateau de Cameron."

You throw him a glare, he returns it with a smirk.

"I hear the owner gives out complimentary orgasms."

You let that one pass over unacknowledged.

That's how you've learned to deal with those remarks.

"I haven't had a chance to set up the guest room yet."

Which is true; the furniture is still stacked in boxes, disassembled, in the spare room.

He pats the sofa he's sitting on.

"This will do."

You roll your eyes.

His stupid leg.

"No, it won't. You know it won't. You're banking on me letting you sleep in my bed."

He smiles at you, in that horribly adorable, devious way,

"Sometimes," he says leaning closer, "I think you're smarter than Foreman."

You throw a disapproving face.

You are smarter than Foreman, and he knows it.

You will let him sleep with you.

Because everything that could happen between the two of you, already has.

But, your mattress gives you leverage.

"Tell me why you're here, or you can't stay."

He groans, and leans his head over the back of the sofa,

"Then you go and say something like that."

You smack his arm,

"I'm serious."

He sighs. He knows he needs a legit answer.

"You said you loved me."

You scoot closer to him,

"You already knew that."

He pushes his plate onto the coffee table.

"You said I ruined Chase."

You nod, he looks at you,

"I never told him to kill the big bad black man."

You pick up his plate and take it to the kitchen.

You can hear him getting up to follow you.

He's here for answers about why you left.

Does he really not know?

It wasn't all about Duballah's murder, it wasn't Chase's lying, it wasn't even House's meddling, it was just your excuse to get away.

You turn away from the sink and he is there, leaning against the counter staring at you.

"I have a feeling," he pauses, "that I'm just a scapegoat."

How does he know?

How does he always know?

"House, he murdered someone."

He makes a face like he's determining the weight of your words.

"That explains why you left him, but not why it's my fault."

You close your eyes, throw the dish rag into the sink, and make up a half-lie.

"You broke him down morally. I tried," you start and stop, "I tried to get us away from you, but you couldn't leave us be."

You look at him,

"I tried to start over, but it was too late."

From the look on his face you can't really tell if he bought it or not.

But you do know him, and you are sure this will not be the end of the conversation.

He stands next to you now, both of you staring at a blank refrigerator door.

He leans into your side,

"This is the third time you've left."

You nod,

"This one's for good."

This is oddly comfortable.

There has always been, and will always be, hidden moments between the two of you.

You've both seen parts of each other that no one else is privy too.

"I'm tired." You say.

He nudges you,

"Wanna go fool around for old time's sake?"

You laugh.

* * *

How he looks so right in your bed is beyond comprehension for you.

There will be no fooling around tonight.

Mostly because you don't want to make his 'complimentary orgasms' quip a reality.

You wish going to sleep without someone holding you wasn't so hard.

He turns over on his stomach and touches a lock of your hair that is spread out on the pillow.

"How many men have you loved?"

You turn to look at him,

"Including my father?"

He rolls his eyes.

"Excluding your father, and any other close male relatives."

You think for a moment, determining the criteria for love.

"Three."

He rolls that around in his mind for a moment, quickly doing the math.

Dead husband, failed husband, him.

He knows you have loved him. He probably suspects that you still do love him.

And he would probably be right.

"How many women have you loved?"

You ask him.

Arms folded behind his head, looking smug,

"Meaning made love to?"

You hit his hand that is playing with your hair.

"Stop, you know what I mean."

After a long pause from him,

"Three."

Stacey, blank, blank.

What?

Cuddy?

You?

Surely not.

He probably just said three to mess with you.

Don't let it get to you.

You look over at him, in his t-shirt, with the crinkles around his eyes, and you are thinking screw the pros of single life.

Having a man in your bed again feels good, even if he is an asshole.

You poke his side,

"How long are you staying for?"

He shrugs,

"As long as it takes to get the truth out of you."

You figured.

Well, as long as he is here, you might as well take advantage of him.

His eyes are closed already, trying to sleep.

You move closer to him and he cracks an eye open at you.

You lift up his arm and slide underneath, draping it over your body.

You hear him let out a little laugh, but he doesn't move his arm.

You feel him bury his nose in your hair.

For the first time in three months, sleep comes quickly.


	9. Wonder

Wonder

You open your eyes and always see the same thing.

Baby blue sheets, an empty expanse of bed, and a framed ink blot print on the wall.

You squeeze your eyes shut, half wishing you were somewhere else, and half hoping you never have to leave.

How many times are you going to do this to yourself?

How many times are you going to wake up alone in his bed.

You wonder what it is you're after, keeping company with his disaster.

You know there are things that he can never give you.

You know he will never surrender himself completely.

Still, you end up here.

Over and over again.

You roll over and stare at his ceiling.

You wonder how you two came to the 'agreement' you have now.

One of you shows up, you banter, and bicker, then end up in bed.

You can hear the gurgling of his coffee maker.

You sigh, it's time to face the music.

_Here we go again._

You shuffle down the hall to the kitchen, sleepy-eyed and heavy-limbed.

You can tell it's still early.

You wonder why he is always late to work.

Every time you have spent the night with him, he wakes before you do.

When you appear he takes a sip of his coffee and gives you a scan.

When you walk over to him, he opens the highest cupboard and gets you a coffee cup because he knows you can't reach.

You wonder how he decides when to be lovely.

Because sometimes, he is _so_ lovely.

You drink your coffee, in his kitchen, with no pants on.

And yet, it feels more natural than living with Chase ever did.

He turns and dumps the last of his coffee in the sink,

"How long are you in town for?"

You said you came from Chicago to finalize the divorce.

You wonder if he believes that's really why you came back to Princeton.

"Till the end of the week," you say.

You run your lip over the edge of the coffee cup to distract yourself from thoughts you'd rather not wonder about.

"You did better than I thought you would."

You wonder what he's talking about.

"What do you mean?" You ask.

He laughs a little to himself.

"You made it what? Six months in Chicago before you had to come back?"

You set your cup down and look in the same direction.

He continues,

"You're not very good at this leaving thing."

You wonder if he can see his hypocrisy.

"If I recall correctly, you only made it three months before coming to Chicago."

You are now leaning on opposing counters in his kitchen, dueling.

He smirks, entertained by your response.

"I came for answers about my alleged powers of moral destruction,"

He starts moving towards you.

You know he calculates his moves in advance to have the greatest effects.

"You came back because you missed me."

Tit for tat, quid pro quo.

You scoff,

"I came back to finalize my divorce so I can move on."

He shakes his head, quietly disassembling your argument, your only defense.

"All you have to do is sign the dotted line, that doesn't require your presence or a week in Princeton."

You walk away from him, wondering how you let him get so far into your head, that you will never get him out again.

You head back down the hall to his bedroom.

You wonder how many times you have made this walk.

Passing the same photos on the wall, feeling the uneven wood of the floorboards, fingering the same chip in the doorframe.

You start to gather your things, leaving is the only way you know how to react to his interrogations of your thought processes.

He is standing in the entryway to his bedroom.

"Just admit it." He calls to you.

"Admit what?" You pull on your pants.

"That you like hurting yourself."

At this, you stop.

"What are you talking about?"

You wonder why he decided to become fascinated with _your_ warring emotions.

He comes to sit next to you on his bed.

"You keep coming around here, knowing it will never end up the way you want."

You swallow hard.

"You come to me with sheer excuses and lies, practically begging for my abuse."

You wonder how you ever got in so deep with this man.

If there was ever a time to walk away from him forever, it was six months ago.

"You already know what's going to happen between us before you even step foot inside, and you come anyway."

You wonder when you started crying.

He never softens his tone, or dulls his words with you.

You wonder if it's out of respect or pity.

"You're only keeping me in your life as a form of punishment, of self-mutilation."

You wonder if he is capable of being wrong about you.

You fall into his shoulder and he holds you.

Now you realize.

You've been holding this guilt for so long and taking it out on him.

The fact that someone else knows, that he knows, is liberating.

There will be no more pretending, no more false pretenses for loving him.

After this, you can't try to hide from him anymore.

You look in his eyes, and you see fear and relief simultaneously.

He knows that this exposure would have either killed you or cured you.

You are still breathing.

He pulls you to lie down with him.

He holds your head to his chest so you can hear his heart.

You feel your breathing sync with his even, steady, rhythm.

You don't know how long it has been, but you are calming down.

You are amazed that the most intimate moments with this man are almost never sexual.

This is why you keep coming back for more of him.

He can fathom why you do the things you do.

Because he is guilty of the same offenses.

You moved to Chicago to carry on.

But there will be no moving on from him.

You don't wonder about that.

You know.


	10. Calm

This one is a bit odd.

I haven't a clue where it came from...

Calm

You remember one day of your life very distinctly.

It was a hot summer day, one of those sweltering afternoons where everyone flocks to the water.

You remember you liked going to the ocean.

It was easier to think there.

It was easier to breathe there.

It was grand and turbulent and serene and calming all at once.

You had always liked complicated things.

Till this day you still don't know why you did it.

You waded into the water to cool off, like most other people.

You remember looking back at your mother and father.

Two different beach towels, two feet apart, facing two different directions.

You remember wondering how your mother lived in silence, never discussing more than what to make for dinner or what was needed from the store.

You remember in the car ride over, studying your father's features.

And you knew, you became positive.

He was not part of you, at least not in the biological sense.

Twelve years old, and you have this secret that sends your thoughts swirling into the unknown.

You turned back to tide, feeling it lapping at your ankles.

You remember going deeper into the water, passed the women waders in their modest one-pieces and giant sun hats.

You remember hitting the point where your toes no longer touched the sand.

You remember moving to float on your back, seeing the ring around the sun.

The one thing you don't remember, is why you decided to stop treading water.

You had always thought drowning would be terrible.

But this was exquisite.

Drifting slowly downward, seeing the layers of blue pass you buy, was utterly gorgeous.

Beams of dull glowing sunlight pierced the water's surface, and cascaded all the way down to the ocean floor.

You remember not feeling scared, but completely at ease, just adrift, just sinking.

You were not very deep, but it felt like you had been falling forever.

You remember your eyes hurting from the salt water, but you couldn't stand to close them.

You felt your shoulder blades hit the soft ocean bottom.

You saw your own air bubbles escape from your mouth and stream up and away from you.

You remember thinking everything looked so soft, so completely silken.

You spread your hands and pushed them into the sand, feeling the grains slide under your fingertips.

You felt the gentle swells above you pulsing, making your hair sway with it.

And suddenly, a hand grabbed your arm and you were ripped to the surface, serenity lost.

You reached air and started sputtering, blinded by unfiltered sunlight.

You were being pulled to the shore.

You could hear commotion come from the other beach goers.

Back on dry land, you feel your mother shaking you, begging you to open your eyes.

So you do, and the first thing you see is your father's face, his head eclipsing the sun.

You look from him to your mother, who is beyond the point of relief when she sees that you are alive.

You weren't even breathing hard.

You sat up.

Your father grabbed the back of your neck, and looked you in the eye, searching for any sign of harm.

When he saw that there was nothing, he pushed you away, and turned from you in disgust.

From that day on, age twelve, you decided to be sad.

You had plenty of excuses, an abusive father, the neglect of being a genius and an only child.

But you chose to be sad mostly because you knew you would never see such beauty ever again.

What was left but disappointment when the most magnificent had already been experienced?

And then there was her.

She is that day, encapsulated into a living being.

She is absolute beauty, uncertainty, tragedy, and disappointment summed up into one.

You are desperate for that brief feeling of thoughtlessness, of being so completely awed by something that no notions exist within your mind.

She is the only thing you have found that can give you that respite.

Being with her, seeing her, smelling her.

It's like drowning pleasantly.

That's why you need her around.

Not to keep you in your place, to keep you in _that_ place.


	11. Back

To be completely truthful, I hardly watch the show anymore. But I'll never get over the chemistry they had. And writing them never gets old.

Back

Honestly, she's the first person you wanted to call.

Leg torn in two, consciousness fading, resolve weakening, you almost dialed her number.

_Cameron cell_

But, then again, you aren't even sure if that's still her number, and the blood spurting from your thigh requires immediate attention.

It's probably better this way, you think.

She wouldn't be able to keep her mouth shut about it.

She wouldn't scold you for it, she'd love you for it.

And that's just too dangerous.

No, dangerous is dropping the cauterizer into the open wound.

You've got to call someone, so the other "C" lady it is.

When you're sure that she is actually coming, you start to question if this whole bathtub surgery thing was really the best idea.

Maybe you're in a little deeper than you thought.

_That wouldn't be a first_

A while later you faintly hear the front door open.

Cuddy is here with the collateral damage of her maternal crisis.

Time to concentrate.

* * *

You wake up with an even smaller right thigh and Wilson asleep in the chair next to the bed.

You try to reach the morphine dispenser a few feet away, but the gurney creaks loudly from the movement.

"I wouldn't risk waking him," a soft voice says from the doorway.

_It's her_

"You know me, I can smell a moral lecture from a mile away," she continues, pointing at Wilson "and he reeks of it."

You smirk and lay back in bed.

_It was only a matter of time_

You gesture for her to come closer, but she won't.

_Power play?_

"How'd you find out about me?" you ask.

She shrugs, "I'm gone but not forgotten. People talk."

"I didn't think you were still in Jersey."

You use the crook of your cane to snare the rolling morphine machine.

"I wasn't, now I'm back," she says.

_Back to Princeton?_

_Back to the hospital?_

_Back to you?_

_No, that couldn't be._

Before you can ask her anything, your cell phone rings.

The noise causes Wilson to stir.

You look to make sure he's still out, and when you look back to where Cameron was standing there's a distinct woman-shaped hole in the room.

You answer the phone loudly "What?"

Wilson jumps awake in the chair.

It's Chase with a case.

You don't want a case now.

You don't need a case now.

You've got your own mystery to solve.

Those moments with her were so fleeting, the conversation so intangible, and your mind so full of drugs you start to question if she was ever there at all.

* * *

After two days of constant Wilsonian chastisement, you go home.

You never saw her again, but you know she's still around.

You can _feel_ her in the air.

Sitting alone in your apartment, nursing a drink you probably shouldn't have, you aimlessly scroll through your phone's address book.

When you get to the "C's" you smirk.

_Cameron's new 3_

You press the call button.

"I see you know how to work the contact list," she says when she answers.

She's smug, time to fix that.

"Come over," you add a "please" for effect.

You can hear her surprise over the phone.

Got her off balance.

_Perfect_

Click.

An hour later she's walking through your door and sucking all the air out of your living room.

You stare at each other for a long time, until, with the shrug of her shoulders, she suggests détente.

You concede by shoving all the magazines off of the couch cushion next to you, choosing her seat.

She sits down next to you,

"Wanna talk about it?"

"Nope."

"Can I look at it?"

"Nope."

"You still sleeping with Cuddy?"

You narrow your eyes at her, "Nooope."

She nods, looking around at all the familiar spaces.

"Wanna get drunk and fool around?"

"Absolutely."

Twenty minutes later your pants are at your knees and she's inspecting the incision, worry resting on her brow.

When she's had a good look you push her hands away.

As you pull your jeans up over your hips, you lace your voice with innuendo,

"Satisfied?"

She looks like she wants to say something, but she can't seem to find the words.

You can tell the needle on her moral compass is spinning wildly out of control, but as much as she wants to challenge you, she also can't stand to disappoint you.

An aspect of her character that is equal parts irritating and sexy.

You break the silence.

"You're back?"

"Yep."

"At the hospital?"

"Yep."

You almost add _"For good this time?"_ but you know better than to put her in a box.

She runs her hand over one of your brimming bookshelves, fingers skimming the tip of each spine.

"No other place seemed to fit."

She turns her gaze on you,

"I guess this is home."

You tried to stop yourself from thinking about the significance of that statement, but it's too late because you're already picturing waking up tomorrow with her in your bed.

Elbows brushing as she gets up from the couch, you watch as she steps out of her shoes, putting them next to yours by the door.

She hangs her coat up in the hall closet and sets her bracelet on the entry table; all symbols of her permanence.

Leaning heavily on your cane, you limp over to her,

"I guess you can stay, but you'll have to bunk with 13, no pj's allowed."

"Deal," she holds out her hand for you to shake.

You mock scoff and walk to your bedroom, smiling at the realization that nothing's really changed.

Except that you know she's staying this night.

And the next.

For good this time.


	12. Instantly, Naturally

Instantly, Naturally

You watch them and you are envious.

Instantly, naturally, they can do what you cannot.

Take flight, escape to a new destination.

Watching the birds that flitter around the park's courtyard used to clear your mind, but now it just makes you hyper-aware of your overwhelming desire to run away.

Why do you wish to be nothing more than a pretty girl in a cafe window that a passerby notices on his way home?

No prying or interrogating, just an assessment at literal face value.

You know you should be thankful for both your brains and your bone structure, but living with the combination is an utter burden.

If only you had one without the other.

Daisy was right, the best thing a girl can be in this world is a beautiful little fool.

After all, sadness can't overcome the simplest of minds.

If it weren't for the two men in your life, you might not be so confused.

Chase makes you want to run.

_He_ makes you want to stay.

You go to him anyway, even though you know it will just exacerbate the wound.

He is the opposite of relief.

* * *

His apartment is exactly the way you remember it.

Dark but comfortable, calming but depressive.

You're sitting on his couch, staring at nothing, when a glass tumbler appears in front of your face.

You look up at him, holding the full bottle in his other hand.

You take the glass but don't drink it, suspicious of the situation.

He rolls his eyes and takes the drink from your hand, throws it back, and pours another.

"I can tell," he says, "I'm going to have to be shit faced to make it through this conversation."

He nods at the newly filled glass, "The only way you're going to loosen up is to get drunk with me."

It burns as it goes down.

* * *

You wonder if she can see her face without the tragedy.

It's annoying, the way she feels she has to apologize for crying on your shoulder.

Doesn't she realize by now?

It's the ease of emotion that you love about her.

If you had wanted a heartless bitch in your life, she would have been cut from the team on day one.

You appreciate that instantly, naturally, she is able to do something that you cannot or will not do.

With this many drinks between the two of you, you are reasonably certain you can ask her anything.

"Did you ever love Chase?"

You see the embarrassment rise from her neck into her face, and finally reach her eyes,

"I must have, I wouldn't have married him if I didn't love him at some point."

A bitter taste forms in your mouth.

Some part of you wants to believe that you're the only man she's ever loved.

Silent tears are rolling down over the curve of her fortunately symmetrical cheek bones, "I don't want to be anybody's anything."

You think of all the labels she wears:

_The hospital's doctor_

_Chase's wife_

_Your...lover?_

But you don't love her.

No, you simply make love to her, quiet her when she cries, and call her when you're about to go over the edge.

Who are you kidding?

* * *

Early the next morning when you leave his bed to slip back into the one you share with Chase, you don't feel at all scared.

Chase won't question your lies about last night's whereabouts.

He's so desperate to hold onto what he thinks the two of you share, that he'll blind himself to anything.

He can't seem to understand why you'll never be sure.

But really, how is anyone ever 100% certain they've found the one person they want to be with forever?

It doesn't seem plausible.

It doesn't seem logical.

You've spent so long convincing yourself that loneliness is an inherent trait, that you're doomed to pursue impossible relationships.

You're entire life thus far has been spent persuading yourself that you are a modern day Jordan Baker; a woman with a purpose, a woman that wouldn't be slowed down, defined, or tamed.

And then there was this boy.

This kind, genuine, simple, boy.

Now, you are lost.

He is the antithesis of the romantically tortured mess you've envisioned for yourself.

No brooding melancholy, no internal turmoil, no scotch drinking.

But you can't help it.

It's easy to want to love him.

He is young, strong, and warm.

He holds you so completely that you cannot imagine sleeping alone again.

His simplicity draws you in, gives you the upper hand.

You can see it in the way he looks at you, complete adoration.

He is taken with you and the only thing you feel is guilt because you fully expect that one day, you will break his heart.

You make rationalizations, justifications for your impending cruelty.

_"It was never supposed to be him."_

When things are sailing along smoothly, you always intervene.

You create drama if only to create lows so low, an intense high is sure to follow.

Just like _he_ does.

You are aware that this is quite unhealthy.

The problem is–you think–you've never really been in love before.

At least, when the feeling is completely mutual and unconditional.

How can you judge the intensity of the love you have with Chase when you have no other experience with which to compare?

This is lovely, but could it be earth-shattering?

He seems to know with undying certainty that you are the one.

He doesn't, nor will ever, need another.

* * *

Spain.

Of all the places to run to, that would be yours.

There is, and you suspect always will be, a part of you that wants to sever all ties with everyone you've ever known, drift off to some faraway city, and begin again, free from any relationships or personal responsibilities; a desire you've acquired from the only man who can control you.

You would leave poor simple boy with no explanations, no hints at his mistakes because of course there would be none.

A genuine heart and a dimpled smile are never mistakes.

But trusting them to a girl who was always torn between who she was and who she wrote herself to be, was a grievous error.

You think you really did love him.

Maybe enough to make the marriage last.

But checking the flights to Barcelona never did exemplify certainty.

If only you had been born a fool.

A beautiful little fool.


End file.
